


Regulation

by Valeria2067



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Afghanistan, Bondlock, M/M, Pre-Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Army Doctor stationed in Afghanistan meets an attractive, cocky Naval Commander just back from an undisclosed mission. The next mission, it seems, has nothing to do with Queen and Country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regulation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decompositiondance](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=decompositiondance).



> A Birthday gift for a Decompositiondance on Tumblr, a wonderful person and an amazing artist. Based on her gorgeous artwork below. AU in which John Watson has a chance encounter with James Bond. AU in which the military actually works in the way I've described.

"Can you follow my finger with your eyes, Commander? Don’t move your head, please, Sir."  John watched his patient's light-blue eyes track left, then up, then back to the centre. 

_Extraordinary_. The eyes, not the response. Though this man’s responses, reflexes, and physique were the closest to perfect John had seen outside textbooks in med school. They sure as hell beat the norms listed on any RAMC charts. Was the Royal Navy running some kind of eugenics programme in an effort to defeat Al Qaeda?

"Watson is it? I thought Preston was the medic on duty. Dark hair, tall, eyelashes from here to Kazakhstaa—"

John placed the depressor against the Commander’s tongue and pushed down. “It IS her shift, but I was already awake, and she was sleeping so peacefully…”  The patient’s eyebrow rose, and a gleam lit his eyes as John removed the wooden stick. “Or so I understand, Commander.”

"Bond. James Bond." Without taking those incredible eyes off of John, Bond licked his lips slowly. John found his own gaze jumping back and forth between the crystal blue eyes and the full lower lip.

"Is that your type, then, Captain? Tall, dark-haired, with beautiful eyes? Or do you enjoy a bit of variety?"

Without thinking, John licked his own lips. He was rewarded with an even broader grin.

He cleared his throat. “Commander Bond, you may have sustained a concussion. Do you remember anything that happened to you before the explosion at the enemy encampment? Were you….detained…. there for any length of time prior?” The man had certainly been “detained” somewhere --several somewheres-- in the past. John ran a hand across a particularly jagged white scar near Bond’s lower right ribs.

"Hang-gliding," Bond offered, nodding toward John’s hand. "Or was that one from parasailing? It all sort of blends together. Bit of an adrenaline addict, I’m afraid. Thrill of the chase. Danger. Breaking rules."

James reached out and laid HIS hand lightly on the side of John’s left thigh. One finger began to trace slow circles against the back of John’s knee. “I’d wager you have the same weakness for excitement, Captain Watson.”

John closed his hand around Bond’s wrist and tightened his grip until he saw the other man flinch. What John did NOT do, however, was move the trespassing hand away.

"Commander," he said evenly, "may I remind you that you are my patient. You are currently under my care."

"And I out-rank you, as well. Mmm. So many rules to break. Or were you planning to break my wrist, instead, Doctor?"

John loosened his grip but still did not let go.

"I take my duty as a medical officer very seriously, Commander Bond."

"So, you’ll fraternize with colleagues, just not patients?" Bond let his fingertips fall against John’s knee again.

"I don’t fraternize with patients, ever. And I don’t discuss my personal life with them. If you’d like to report me to my commanding officer and suggest he review my off-duty conduct, you are free to do so, of course. Sir." John placed Bond’s hand back on the examining table. "Now, have you experienced any dizziness or nausea in the past twelve hours, Commander?"

Bond smirked and looked up at a point on the wall just above John’s head. “And If I weren’t your patient, Captain Watson? Would that soften your view of the situation? Or would your resolve be just as…firm?”

Something had indeed been getting progressively firmer for John, and Bond’s eyes now took a slow journey from the wall to John’s torso, past the taut abdomen, and down below John’s belt line.

John let out a single puff of breath - the closest thing to a laugh he would allow himself. “Are you requesting to be transferred to another medical unit? I could try to arrange to have you transported to Baghram. The Americans there might appreciate your sense of humour more, Sir.”

"My mouth make you uncomfortable, does it?"

_Shit._ John himself was staring at that full lower lip again.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"I’m going to recommend you remain under observation for the next six to twelve hours. If your vitals continue to look good, and if you show no signs of concussion, you’ll be released for active duty again, pending approval from the senior medical officer on base."

"And that’s not you, is it, Doctor?"

"No, Sir."

"May I speak to the senior medical officer now?"

John made a few notes on the patient’s chart, closed it, and hung it back on a hook next to an empty I.V. bag. “I’m sure he’ll be by in his own time, Commander. If you like, I can ask his daughter to speak to him just as soon as she wakes up. Sir.” John smiled pleasantly, turned on his heel, and strode out.

He thought he heard a deep, breathy chuckle as he left.

Six hours later, John ended Preston’s shift. His own didn’t begin for a while, but he knew he couldn't sleep. He decided to try to rest his body, at least, even if his mind and his pulse would not stop racing.

When set foot inside his barracks, he found it was nearly silent; not even the sound of snoring greeted him from any of the other bunks.

There was only one man there And that man happened to be a high-ranking officer in Her Majesty’s Navy.

John looked back over his shoulder at the barracks’ entrance, turned around again to face Commander James Bond, and laughed out loud.

"You ARE joking, right?" He asked.

Bond, naked from the waist up, merely smiled and took a sip of something from a very non-regulation flask. He held it out in offering toward John.

John waved it away. “No, thanks. I’m on duty in a few hours.”

"No, your shifts are covered. In fact, you have exactly nowhere to be until mid-day tomorrow. Your commanding officer gave you a furlough. Thought you could use some rest and relaxation. Nice fellow. Takes his martinis extra dry, two olives. Appreciates an authentic cigar."

At this, John’s mouth dropped open.

"Did you…bribe….my commanding officer just so you could have a chance at sleeping with me?"

Bond smiled. “Not bribe, Watson. I spoke with him. We’re old friends. Served together on a mission a few years ago.”

John’s heart rate had increased substantially, pumping a good deal of that blood down to his groin. This was all a bit surreal. But it WAS happening, wasn’t it? His face felt hot. A touch of anger mixed in with the excitement. “Did the two of you consider whether I might not be interested in your idea of relaxation?” He wasn't keen on being taken for granted or being pressured. Still, this Bond didn’t seem the type to take unfair advantage, rule-breaker or no.

To be honest, John couldn’t imagine a man as fit and charming as Bond NEEDING to press an advantage. The good doctor’s body was already in enthusiastic favour of getting as close to Bond’s as possible. John’s conscience, though, still held back.

"No strings attached, Captain." Bond was smiling, but it was an open, honest smile. "I’m not a bully. And I’m not interested in having something that isn’t freely given." The flask angled toward John again.

This time, John took a step closer,and reached out to accept it. He held Bond’s gaze as he sipped. It was strong but smooth. Single malt. Expensive as hell, John was sure. He handed it back and scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

"And after midday tomorrow?" John asked. "Once you’ve had what is freely given? Where will you go then?"

"Classified, sorry." Bond's smile lost its openness. The mask was up again. "Nowhere in the vicinity, though. At least not for some time. Will that be a problem?"

"I suppose not. No strings attached, as you say." John didn’t know why the thought of such a limited encounter bothered him, and he did his best to ignore a tug in his chest he hadn’t felt for months or years. 

Nobody out here made long-term plans. Nobody allowed themselves special attachments. You found what happiness and comfort you could and left the future to take care of itself. If you were lucky, you had more than one night. If you were unlucky, well…. There wasn’t any point dwelling on it, was there?

Bond stood up. He moved toward John, hooked his finger in one of John's belt-loops, and pulled him close."We'll have the barracks to ourselves for an hour. After that...."

"After that, we'll just have to charge admission." John leaned in and brushed Bond's lower lip with his own.

The lips broke into a smile as Bond moved his mouth, never breaking contact with John's skin, to John's jawline. Hard, smooth teeth scraped the barely-emerging blond stubble, dug into softer flesh of John's neck and throat.

John grabbed Bond by the hips as the Commander's strong hands worked to remove the clothing that separated them. He gasped as the sucking and biting grew deliciously intense, even painful. He felt fingers run along his spine, dip down the back of his loosened trousers. They clawed at him, pulling him tip-toe and off-balance. 

He took a moment to free himself from his shirt, and then he broadened his stance. With a quick movement of his leg and shift in his weight, he pulled them both down toward the nearest low bunk.

The body that fell against John was heavier and more solid than the trim hips and waist might imply. Like John, Bond was compact: powerful without being beefy, short, perhaps, but not slight. He smelled of scotch and light sweat and spice. John wanted to lick him, devour him. Consume him. Undo him.

John took Bond's face into his hands, let his hands drift to the firm, muscled neck, and captured Bond's mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.


End file.
